


West Woodlawn

by tiamatv



Series: South Side Swing [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Still Very Much Team Switch For Life!), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Chicago Mafia, Enthusiastic Consent, M/M, Pillow Talk, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Russian Mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24041833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: Dean’s already having a crappy day. The North Side Gang is acting up, Arthur Ketch is being a passive-aggressive priss, Sammy won’t stopteasing him,and he has to get his head in shape for Bobby’s first meeting with the Brighton Beach Avoritet tomorrow.Finding out that a Russian mobster has broken into his bedroom is just the cherry on top.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: South Side Swing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734220
Comments: 48
Kudos: 314





	West Woodlawn

**Author's Note:**

> To everyone who took the time to ask/beg/nudge me for a sequel: this would not have been written without you. As much as this story fought me, it was thinking about you guys out there that kept me powering through it! So thank you!
> 
> Thanks once again to the lovely \\\Laura, Queen of the Damned// [wearetheluckyones](http://www.archiveofourown.com/users/wearetheluckyones_Laura/pseuds/wearetheluckyones_Laura) for the very thoughtful beta!

Dean had had a really long day.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t good at this political bullshit when he wanted to be. He was! Was he ever gonna like it? No, no he was not. This was not the first time Dean Winchester had wished that he really was the mechanic that his taxes said he was, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

He didn’t even really get what the North Side Gang was all pissy about this time around. They had a Polish branch that was friendly with the Brighton Beach Russians, they’d as much as _said_ back in the day that if the Chicago Outfit ventured up past the river to chase off the Bratva they’d throw a hissy. So why were all their panties in a twist now that Gabriel was actually thinking about playing _nice_ with Bobby? Dean would have thought they’d be fucking _pleased_ that the Brighton Beach Avoritet was gonna be arriving tomorrow for his first official visit!

As street boss, Dean didn’t manage most of the supply chain, but he knew this: all of this was gonna help the flow of cars and parts into Chicago, ‘cause Brighton Beach had gotten a little too hot for that industry, and get more of those big guns _out_ of Chicagoland. Dean didn’t have anything against guns—he wasn’t a hypocrite, he loved the things, rarely felt more at home than when his Colt was cupped in his fingers—but guns belonged in the hands of those that knew how to use them, and when not to. Not South Side teenagers waving a piece around ‘cause they thought they were so damned tough, and as like to shoot themselves or their neighbor’s dog from an accidental discharge.

But _no_ , because Arthur Ketch’s people were passive-aggressive as all _fuck_ , it was smarmy promises and annoying veiled threats and Dean really did not know how Bobby put up with that shit, not at _all_. Dean kinda missed Mick Davies, who’d been prissy as Hell but at least a guy could trust him not to spin on a dime.

“This is why you’re never going to be Capo, Dean,” Sammy sighed.

“No,” Dean stabbed a finger in the direction of his gigantic little brother’s chest. “This is why you’re gonna have to hold a gun to my head if anyone ever wants to make me _be_ Capo.”

Sammy smirked, unimpressed. “That comes to the same thing, jerk.”

“Oh, shut up. You… you drive a _Honda_ ,” Dean grumbled as they pulled to a stop in front of Sammy’s apartment building. Oh, yeah, he was really at the height of his game with that one.

“Oh, that’s _brilliant,_ Dean, you really got me in the cement boots with that one,” Sammy answered, and that was Sammy’s shithead voice, and Dean’s eyes were narrowing already before his brother continued, gleefully, “Never, ever, ever thought I’d ever say this, but do you need to go get laid before the meeting tomorrow or something? ‘Cause you are _so_ pissy, you know how you get, and you and Angel Novak were already about to go pistols at dawn or something, that last time—"

Dean shoved his laughing punk of a little brother out of the Impala.

Well, what if it _had_ been a little while? It’d been… Dean wasn’t _easy_ —well… okay, yeah, he kind of was sometimes. But he still had his moods and his preferences, why couldn’t he be picky now and again? There was nothing wrong with wanting some _chemistry_. Maybe the curve of jaw or cheek that hit him in the gut just right, eyes that caught his attention from across the room, and a really nice voice would just kind of be a bonus—

Dean had _not_ needed Sammy to remind him about Castiel “Angel” Novak, not at _all_. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten, anyway. Talk about a fucking kick in the… okay, no. Bad.

Yes, Dean understood that he hadn’t known that the sonofabitch was Gabriel Novak’s little brother—Gabriel’s _second-in-command—_ when Dean had picked him up at Jeffrey Pub last month. He even understood that Castiel hadn’t known who _Dean_ was, either, and because the guy was strange and intense they hadn’t even exchanged fake names.

The irony was, Dean thought, that given what he knew of Castiel Novak now, if Dean had pressed the issue he probably _would_ have gotten his real name.

_No,_ he was never going to explain to Rufus or Sam or _anyone_ why he and Castiel had seemed so annoyed with each other right from the first time they’d actually… met. (So to speak.) Was it any wonder Dean hadn’t exactly been in the mood to go out and get some?

Comedy of errors all around. Fucking hilarious.

(The sex, though. God. That had been… not even remotely funny at all. Sometimes, even just remembering it made the base of Dean’s spine tingle, and he stood by his mental promise that Castiel was not allowed to give him a hard-on in front of his own goddamned men!)

Still, that wasn’t the point. It really wasn’t. Dean would insist that none of his current bad temper had anything to do with who he had or hadn’t slept with (no, not ‘this time,’ Sammy.) And it really _didn’t_ have anything to do with the meeting tomorrow—there had already been so many damned missives back and forth in the past month, and Gabriel seemed like a pretty normal kind of asshole. Not a Lucifer kind of asshole.

(Besides, Dean thought _everyone_ in the room tomorrow ought to remember what had happened the last time one of the Bratva had tried to screw with the Outfit. Dean was not that concerned. He was also not remotely sorry he’d shot Lucifer Novak, he just wished he’d aimed a little higher than the guy’s knee.)

Today, though, looking at Ketch’s sneering face and hearing that _bullshit_ the man was spouting about territory and infringement and what, Dean would argue that what he really needed was a face to punch. Which he couldn’t, ‘cause it didn’t matter how on edge he was feeling: he could not punch Arthur Ketch. Furthermore, if Dean got himself put away for a bar fight the day before Bobby was supposed to get officially introduced to the Bratva’s Avoritet, then—uncle or no—Bobby was gonna officially introduce Dean to the end of a shotgun.

Dean waved a hand to Mrs. Pettke across the street, still grumbling as he unlocked his front door and keyed off his alarm system. Sometimes he really wished Bobby and Ketch had never started talking truce those years ago—what kind of proper leader lived in some fancy Lakeview property while the rest of his people stayed up in Avondale anyway? As it was they’d _just_ gotten Bobby to move to the Back of the Yards. Dean’s little place was in _Chatham,_ thank you.

“’Singer, I understand that you must… solidify a power base,’” he simpered, in a mockery of Ketch’s fucking pretentious—and fake, Dean had that on pretty good authority—accent. He looked at his fridge, thought about a drink. Then decided, _maybe later._ “’But my _ego,_ oh my poor bruised _ego_ —'"

Dean slammed into his bedroom, still muttering, and—

And. The lamp beside his bed was on.

Brain turned off, body turned on, gun up. Everything was tinged electric around the edges and there was someone in his _bedroom_.

“What the _fuck_?” Dean asked the world in general. He knew his 1911 was in his hands, he’d thumbed off the safety, and it was aimed.

Steady blue eyes blinked slowly at him, unconcerned, dark indigo as the ocean at dusk in the light of Dean’s bedside lamp, and Dean’s nerves _sizzled_.

“Hello, Dean. Do you always talk to yourself in such a strange voice?” Castiel Novak asked, calmly, as if he didn’t have a live firearm pointed at his pretty face. Then he frowned a little. “Or do you have an alternate personality? I’ve heard that about you.”

He was sitting in Dean’s bed with the covers pulled up to his waist, propped up against the headboard, comfy as could be. His phone was resting on the bedside table, its screen dark. He had his index finger stuck in the middle of Dean’s thumbed-through copy of The Two Towers. Did he ever comb his hair? Dean took it all in with a glance that was still white with adrenaline, and that was all he got.

Castiel was shirtless—and why the fuck wasn’t he wearing a shirt?—and _holy shit_ Dean was pretty sure he couldn’t have forgotten the sight of that, but apparently he had.

Dean would have liked to say he didn’t stare. That he didn’t lick his lips. That he didn’t feel his heart rate kick, that all of a sudden his pants weren’t a little too tight, that his collar didn’t feel like it was buttoned up too high. (Wait, Dean wasn’t even wearing anything buttoned up to his neck at all. He was in a t-shirt.) Yeah, sure, there was a gorgeous guy in Dean’s bed, and Dean knew from firsthand experience just how _good_ he was at what he did in it. He also would have liked to say he knew better, now, he knew what Castiel did for a living, he knew better than to let that awkward-accountant façade fool him.

Yeah, he’d have liked to say all of those things. Yup.

In the silence where Dean’s mouth was hanging open, Castiel’s eyes crinkled at the very corners, the smirk both wordless and as loud as a whistle at the same time.

That brought Dean’s voice back from its Florida vacation. “You are such an _asshole_ ,” Dean hissed, putting up his Colt and thumbing the safety back on. “What is it with you and being places you are just _not_ fucking supposed to be, Cas?”

“You had to know I would be in Chicago. Gabriel is meeting with Capo Singer tomorrow,” Castiel told him, calmly. “So you’re going to have to clarify. Are you referring to me picking your lock and disabling your alarm system, or me being naked in your bed?”

_What?_

There was a neatly folded pile of clothing on the stool Dean sat at to lace his boots. A pair of black socks lay on top, next to a neat rolled sausage of blue tie.

Dean’s brain stuttered as Castiel pushed up on an elbow. The thin top sheet he had draped up to his waist sagged down on one side, and the clean lines of muscle that made up his six-pack and his shoulders shifted into prominence. That would’ve been enough to explode a few of Dean’s brain cells all on its own—why did he hide these things under that awful trench coat, _why?_ —except then the perfectly lickable curve of his hip into the very tip of that deep V into his groin popped into view, followed by the long, heavy line of his thigh.

Oh. Holy shit. It hadn’t been some kind of weird metaphor. He really was _naked_.

Okay.

_Wow_.

Dean wasn’t drooling. He wasn’t. Right? That was not the appropriate response here.

_Brain, Winchester, brain. Not the one between your legs. Up top. Now._

“Pick one,” he finally grunted, after _way_ too long, turning to put his pistol down on the dresser and hang his jacket on the back of his bedroom door. Mostly so he didn’t do something extra-stupid like crawl straight into that bed and put his mouth on that hipbone. “I coulda had company or some shit. Or, Hell, I mighta shot first and asked later.” Also, how’d he turned Dean’s alarm _back on?_

“You have a private room in the back of a gay pub for ‘company,’” Castiel answered, calmly, rearranging the blankets to cover himself again, and what was wrong with Dean’s head that he wanted to throw out a hand and stop him from doing that? “Also, I’m certain Capo Singer would be very displeased if you shot someone unprovoked.”

What kind of logic was _that?_ Dean turned and glared at him over his shoulder. “Sneaking into my house and getting naked in my bed isn’t _‘provoking?_ ’” he demanded, incredulous.

Castiel considered that, his eyebrows tipping up towards the center of his forehead. His lips finally pursed outwards. “Maybe a different kind of provocation,” he finally admitted.

Dean really didn’t know whether to laugh or shoot him anyway. “Yeah, still gonna go with ‘you’re an asshole’ for two hundred, Alex,” he muttered.

That, though, of all the things, _that_ was what got him the cute eyebrow crinkle. “What?” Castiel asked. “My name’s not Alex.”

“What?” Dean stared back. “You know, it’s from…” from the shades of owl that Dean was getting, no, he… maybe didn’t. “You know what, never mind. _Jesus_ , what is wrong with you? And _no,_ you don’t get to make comments about me blaspheming!” Dean pointed an accusing finger at Cas, whose lips had just parted.

Castiel closed his mouth and frowned, noting, “Just because you don’t _want_ me to doesn’t mean I’m incorrect,” and Dean should not encourage him by laughing, he _shouldn’t._

“Okay, seriously, Cas, is this a Brotherhood thing? Like tagging? Appearing places you ain’t supposed to be? _What_ are you doing in my house?” he demanded.

Castiel looked at him like _Dean_ was the one doing something crazy, then glanced down at himself like he had to check on his own situation. “I’d have thought it’d be obvious.”

“Oh, ha ha. Right.” He snorted. “You’re either giving me big sad eyeballs across a freakin’ gay bar and makin’ _me_ walk over to _you_ or you’re sneaking into my bed naked?”

But Castiel just raised ‘well, what about it?’ eyebrows at him, and the laugh that had been bubbling around kind of snuck its way out from behind Dean’s ribs, and he couldn’t quite choke it down before it escaped. Between snickers, Dean managed, “You just don’t do things by halves, do you, Cas?”

“I’ve been told that,” the goddamned gorgeous not-an-accountant in Dean’s own bed agreed. He looked annoyed by the fact that Dean was laughing at him. Well, tough.

Fuck, _fuck_ did he look good there, though. He’d gotten some sun since April, his skin was looking toned and tan and sleek against Dean’s sheets, and his hair was still messy in soft dark spikes against Dean’s pale birch headboard. Castiel hadn’t been wrong about the fact that Dean didn’t bring people home, guys _or_ girls, he hadn’t in _years,_ but… fuck.

He needed to think. No, what he needed to do was kick out this sonofabitch, shower off the stink of the North Side, and go to sleep. No, _actually_ , what he needed to _not_ have was a hard-on, because encouraging this kind of behavior was a bad idea. Dean knew how this game was played, he couldn’t let Cas see that he’d gotten to him any more than he should have let him know how much it pissed him off that Cas hadn’t gotten caught up by the Outfit’s net the first time he’d been in Dean’s city.

Okay, pretty much every part of Dean was in agreement about all that. There was just one minor part of him that was whining about how _pretty_ Cas had looked sucking on his cock. It was complaining about how he hadn’t actually gotten to bite down on those abs last time, and reminding him how the man knew how to use his hands and really, _really_ knew how to use his cock.

Unfortunately, that part was pretty loud right now, and it was in Dean’s pants.

Castiel’s eyes didn’t drop there, though—Dean really would have shot him if they had, because _rude_ —and instead they politely followed the motions of Dean’s hands as he unbuckled his holster straps, hung the rig up on its peg next to his bed. Dean slotted his Colt sulkily back into it. At least Cas hadn’t tried to get into Dean’s side of the bed. There was this cocky power game Mafia stuff and then there were some things that were sacred.

“That’s a beautiful pistol. Colt M1911?” Castiel noted, and he sounded curious for real. “You weren’t armed before.” He said it with the certainty of someone who knew what a concealed carry looked like.

Well, the man knew his guns. That didn’t surprise Dean—the negotiations tomorrow _were_ for a merch trade, cars for hardware—but okay, they were gonna… converse? This was weird. “Yeah,” Dean muttered. “More armed than you were, anyway. That room’s got weapons in it.” He raised his eyebrows. “Actually, you know? Real pair of titanium ones you’ve got on you, going around the South Side without a piece. Last time you were… in town,” he clarified, when Castiel’s eyebrows rose in inquiry.

“I was at the Art Institute that day, Dean. There are metal detectors,” Castiel told him, very seriously.

Oh, _right_. Because it was totally normal to go touristing when you were dodging a rival Mafia gang that you hadn’t yet established truce terms with.

“Besides,” he added, with that tiny little cock of his head sideways, “in a city that is not my own, when I’m by myself I find that a gun invites more attention than it avoids.” Another shrug that was a miniature conversation all on its own. “I admire guns for themselves, but I prefer knives, in general.”

Goddammit. Dean had been sort of idly wondering for a _month_ which Cas preferred, and knowing that answer was not doing anything for that half-chub that Dean had in his pants.

Because, again—Dean was dressed, and Castiel was _naked_ , and…

This was a bad idea.

“I need a shower,” Dean announced, starting on his t-shirt. And ignoring the way eyes trailed up his side, his chest, the way Castiel Novak could make a look into a lick. “And when I get out, you better be gone.”

He really should have said that with a lot more conviction. _Shit_. This was a _terrible_ idea.

Castiel smiled like he could hear it. “What if I’m not?”

“Look, _Angel_ , I am not in the mood to fuck around.” Except Dean was, he really was, his day was all up and down his back, and he honestly hadn’t been thinking of fucking it out because that just wasn’t a nice thing to do to a stranger in a bar whether they were a guy _or_ a girl, and Dean wasn’t a total asshole.

But… Castiel Novak wasn’t a stranger, and this wasn’t a bar.

_Weren’t you just thinking about chemistry?_ Right now, with Cas’s eyes on his, the confident slant of his shoulders in Dean’s space, blanket thrown casual over his lap like he did not give a fuck that Dean had pointed a gun at him—that chemistry was so thick in the air Dean thought he could stick out his tongue and taste it.

So, okay. Not just eyes on him in Jeffrey Pub. Not just the temporary, anonymous safety of that back room. Not just the shadows of streetlights off the Millennium Park Bean.

Cas’s eyes had narrowed just a little at the use of his street name, but he still did not look the least bit concerned. Dean leveled him with a look that he knew wasn’t nice. “I’m just sayin’,” Dean warned him. “If you’re not gone by the time I come back in here, I won’t be the one sore tomorrow.”

“Thank you for clarifying.” Castiel’s expression was serious again, steely and considering and completely unbothered by the threat in Dean’s tone—up until one eyebrow tilted upwards. He opened the book that he had in his lap and leaned back against Dean’s headboard, and now Dean’s half-hard-on wasn’t half _anything_ anymore. “I’ll be right here, then.”

_Well_ then.

It was one of the fastest showers that Dean thought he’d ever taken.

The fantastically hot Parakh in Dean’s bed was _not_ a stress-induced hallucination, as it turned out. Probably. If he were, Dean needed to have more stress hallucinations. Because Castiel had pushed the thin topsheet to his feet and was jacking himself off, slowly and leisurely, when Dean came out of the shower. The soft rosy pink head of his cock peeping through his fingers was already full and already _wet._

Some tiny, squeaky-wheel part of Dean’s brain noted that Castiel had folded the duvet cover to the foot of the bed along with the way he’d folded up his own clothes, because this guy was just… Dean didn’t even know.

_Have it your way_ , and Dean didn’t know if his mind was saying that to himself or to Castiel. He was too busy to think about it. He had his hand fisted in that dark, ruffled hair, he was hauling that proud head back until the angle had to be a strain, and his teeth were just _barely_ short of drawing blood out of that full, lush lower lip when he slammed their mouths together.

Not putting any clothes back on when he came out of the shower had been the best idea he’d had all night.

From the way that made Cas let go of his own cock and grab onto Dean’s hip, hauling him in until he almost overbalanced them both? Castiel did not fucking care what Dean’s addled brain was saying, either. Which was fine. Dean hopped himself up on his own memory foam and straddled him, snuck a hand between, gripped them both together—squeezed in a few little pulsing rubs. Just a touch. Just a reminder. Cas moaned into Dean’s chest, and teeth scraped his collarbone when he panted, open-mouthed. _Maybe next time_ , Dean thought, a little regretfully, then blinked at himself.

Next time. What?

He really needed to stop thinking. Dean scrambled blindly into his bedside drawer for the lube and left it hanging open in his impatience, got his fingers good and sloppy as he kneed Castiel’s thighs apart. His grin probably wasn’t nice, but what the Hell, he didn’t care—the admiration was real.

Cas was just as much of a sight as the first time, mouth a little open, that scruff a shadow in the lamplight, eyelids heavy and chest deep-breathing. Just for how _stunning_ he was like that, Dean grabbed the bottle of lube and poured a thin, cold stream onto Cas’s cock to watch it twitch, let his wet fingers slide down the underside, trail down the soft crease at the midline of his balls, followed the trickle of it all the way as it slid.

He reached his hand down, down, eagerly, enjoying the tension of Cas’s thighs tightening as his fingertips slipped and glided, when he thumbed lube across the delicate crinkles of his sack, pressed in tight against the snug stretch of his perineum. Oh, look, that made Cas whine just the same way it had made Dean, a month ago.

But when he found the firm curl of Castiel’s hole, it almost swallowed him up. There was still that flutter of contact, sure, that good squeeze of muscles reacting to a new touch, but he was slick inside _and_ out and Dean’s finger glided in, in, in—its full length, all the way to his knuckles, so _easy_ —

Dean had to put down his other hand and give his own balls a slow tug downwards, his whole body had tightened up so fast. “You’re already prepped,” he realized, choked. He slid one out, and two went slick, just the right side of relaxed. Cas’s fingers clenched on Dean’s bicep and his breath ran ragged when Dean twisted his fingers experimentally.

“Yes.” There was that steady, unflinching gaze that he remembered, the one that’d shot heat right into his gut the very first time he’d caught it. “While you were showering. I don’t need any foreplay.” That tiny smile flickered across his face, like it was trying for serious and settling on sweet. “You warned me, after all.”

Holy shit, _holy shit._ Dean looked down because he had to look away or risk coming, saw his cock twitch and drip a long, glistening line onto the inside curve of a thick, powerful thigh. “Fuck, _Cas_ ,” Dean groaned, dropping his head onto Castiel’s shoulder, then turned to glare at the curved line of that jaw—there was that delicate dark scruff again, did the guy _ever_ shave clean, or did he specifically leave that on there just to torture Dean Winchester? “I’m too damned old to be this horny. If I don’t last, you got no-one to blame but yourself.”

Castiel blinked twice under him, shifting his weight, then chuckled like a familiar gravel road. “Would you prefer we do it the other way?” he asked, so _polite_ again. He held a condom up between two fingers, twiddling it. He must’ve been holding it this whole time. “I would like to feel you, but I can be convinced otherwise.”

Why’d he been pissed off again earlier? He couldn’t remember. This guy was fucking _amazing_ , and—yeah, it was not even the first time Dean had thought that about Castiel Novak, and he always _meant it_.

“No. No, are you kidding?” Dean protested, sitting back up to grab the little foil square from him, tearing it open. He didn’t pretend he didn’t enjoy the greedy way Cas’s eyes fixed down as he rolled it on. “No way. I’ve been dreaming of having you backing onto my cock since the first time you _talked_ about it.”

He didn’t know what was up with the startled look that Cas gave him for that, but Cas also didn’t complain when Dean flipped him roughly onto his stomach—just put his elbows under himself, arched his back and rubbed against the sheets like he was testing the slide of them out.

Oh, that was a sight, wasn’t it—Cas _was_ just as good from the back as the front.

Dean settled between those goddamned _legs_ —Dean really hadn’t thought he had a thing for thighs on men, but this was clearly changing his mind—and fanned out his fingers over Cas’s shoulder blades. He pressed in with his palms and a pleased _mmm_ to feel the tension of those sleek muscles against his touch when Castiel pushed into it. On any other occasion, Dean would have nibbled his way down that spine, checked out if the small of Cas’s back was sensitive to the rub of beard stubble—he’d bet it was. He’d have stuck his tongue into those deep little dimples he had right over his ass.

So he had a little bit of an oral fixation. Nothin’ wrong with that.

Today, though, nope. Dean landed on top of him, only just barely held up on his arms, and slotted his cock loosely between those tight, full cheeks. The glide across the lube between them was almost good enough by itself to roll his eyes to the back of his head.

“Ain’t gonna last,” he grunted, because Dean wasn’t a complete sonofabitch and he liked to think he did pretty well by the people he took to bed. “Cas, s’gonna be rough, I wasn’t kidding.”

“Good,” Cas answered, peering back over his shoulder with an impatient squint. “Because your jokes are terrible.”

Yeah, Dean was pretty sure Castiel deserved whatever he was gonna get.

Even with the prep and a good handful of lube he was _tight_ when Dean pushed in—the really, really _good_ kind of tight, the kind that dragged all across Dean’s nerves when he popped through that first ring of muscle. The rest of the slide was still snug, but easier—the sort that yanked at the tension in his back and transferred it to a hot pulse at the base of his cock. Maybe Cas liked the burn of that as much as Dean did himself, though, because his panting was loud enough to fill the room, raspy even without voice, and when he reached back to dig his fingers into Dean’s thigh, it was to pull him _in_ , not push him away. Damn, his hands were so _strong_.

Just in case there was any doubt whatsoever that Castiel, in fact, really did like to bottom, that basement-low, shaky moan didn’t quite succeed in getting drowned in the mattress when Dean’s hips rounded out against Castiel’s frankly fantastic ass.

Since Dean did, in equal fact, really like the sound of that, and he had every intention of hearing it again, he didn’t stop. He ground just that tiny little bit further in just for good measure in a slow, pulsing rub, started pulling out slow—slower than he meant to.

For a second he thought maybe Cas _wasn’t_ ready, his shoulders jerked when he gasped, and his rim had all but quivered in the most amazing way. It didn’t matter how good it felt, Dean didn’t take chances with things like that. He froze—

“Don’t _stop_ ,” Castiel growled, and squeezing around him tight wasn’t the way _Dean_ would have chosen to get that message across… but he couldn’t argue that it worked.

Bossy.

Well, _okay_ then.

His next thrusts drove Cas forward and down, and on the third the groan was _loud,_ deep enough to echo even in the soft space of Dean’s bedroom. Cas threw a hand towards the headboard to brace himself, but the rest of his body bowed in—forehead resting against mattress, face tucked—just dark hair and the pure line of his nape.

_Don’t hide_ , Dean remembered a dark voice in his ear, his shoulder ached with remembering the tug on it, being pulled off the mattress until he was panting into air and there was nowhere else to go but _against_ , not away. _Don’t hide—_

If Dean couldn’t, then neither could Cas. No goddamn way.

Dean snagged a hand around him, settled his palm at that tight, ridged crease between Cas’s abs, leaned back, and pulled, tugging insistently as he got his knees under them. Castiel whined, the sound almost too high for his deep voice, but he struggled himself into an upright position anyway—it was either that or let Dean pull his cock the rest of the way out. At any other time Dean would have been flattered at Cas’s choice, position changes while still tucked together were not easy, but right now he wasn’t surprised.

“ _Dean_ —” Castiel gasped, and Dean thought he was shaking. “What…”

Fuck, that voice of his—Dean’s name sounded so _good_ like that, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d given someone his real name to use, and now he couldn’t even remember why.

Dean rearranged them, Cas’s thick, gorgeous thighs splayed around Dean’s lap, knees propped to the bed, that perfect, rippled back to Dean’s front. One of his Dean’s arms anchored them—Castiel fumbled back. “You told me you’d ride me, too. Just, y’know, makin’ sure you keep your… _ah_ —” his voice cracked as Cas ground down, taking the leverage of this position. Fuck, it just figured he was toppy as shit even with a cock up his ass, and Dean wasn’t even gonna pretend he didn’t like it.

Dean slotted them in, so close now, scattered toothy bites across the backs of Cas’s shoulders, and rode right into it. He thrust into every filthy little dip of Cas’s hips into the curve of his own. Hot slick kept them moving, just _clinging_ as Cas clenched with every tug out, unclenched to let them push in together fast. _Fuck,_ he did not know where Castiel had learned how to do that but Dean definitely did not want him to stop.

“How d’you feel ‘bout… ah… ‘bout marks?” he asked, in the space between remembering how to keep breathing.

“I like them,” Castiel let out a sharp, huffed breath as Dean shoved in again. “Both to give and— _ah_ — have. Quite a lot.”

Dean was sort of starting to understand that when Cas said what he liked and what he wanted, he _meant it._ His whole body arched into Dean, one long, taut line when Dean sealed his mouth against that join between neck and shoulder he’d been eyeing since the very first time he’d gotten Cas’s shirt open. And the way that made his rim clench tight in little pulses around the base of Dean’s cock every time Dean sucked—yeah, Cas was gonna look like a vampire had gotten him, and right now Dean was all for that.

Cas slapped Dean’s hand away, though, when he reached around for that gorgeous cock dripping and bobbing in front of him, leaving little beads on Dean’s sheets.

“Too much,” Castiel grunted. He had the rhythm of it now, Dean knew, _they_ had it, he wasn’t gonna last long himself with those little circles Cas was drawing with his hips, oh _fuck_ —

“You gonna come on my cock, Cas?” he gasped, shoving up and gripping the rise of Cas’s hip hard enough he’d be surprised if he didn’t leave fingerprints. “Just like this, riding me?”

Cas’s rhythm staggered, stumbled—his head fell back, rather than forwards, slotting messy dark hair back against Dean’s shoulder with the line of his neck like an invitation. His groan was low enough that Dean felt the sound of it vibrate through his own chest.

So, he liked a little dirty talk, too. Mm-mm. Yeah, Dean was just learning all sorts of things, wasn’t he?

Like the fact that Castiel had honestly not been exaggerating _one bit_ when he’d said he could come just from being fucked—handsfree, untouched. He proved it minutes later.

It barely took a change in position at all—Cas just leaned forward into the last few thrusts, balancing forward on his knees rather than back against Dean’s hips, and Dean got to watch as every muscle in that strong, gorgeous back tightened all at once. He saw that happen even before Cas cried out, “ _Dean…”_ and went to shuddering pieces all over himself and Dean’s thighs—his legs spread wide as he kept right on riding Dean’s cock through his orgasm, one callused hand gripping desperately at Dean’s knee.

That was probably the hottest thing Dean had _ever_ seen. He would dare _anyone_ to not lose control at that.

He bent Cas the rest of the way forward and shoved him facedown onto his bed, riding him the rest of the way through it. Dean chased the last few thrusts with rough jerks of his hips, chased the sweet, bright snap of release, and when it found him, he slammed deep enough to rock them both.

Well, from the low, greedy noises Castiel was making with Dean’s every last push into his now-slack body?

No, Cas had no problem with _that,_ either.

*_*_*_*

“So how’d you get away from the Novak for the night?” Dean asked, sleepily. “No-one’s gonna care that you’re gone?”

So, okay, maybe he had needed that. He felt… great. Really great. Sammy was never, _ever_ going to find out how right he’d been.

It took Castiel a long moment to reply, though that might’ve been because he hadn’t opened his eyes since Dean had pulled out, tied off the condom, and tossed it across the room. Finally, he turned his face just enough that one eye was peeking out from where he had his face buried in one of Dean’s pillows. “No. Why would they? I’m not Gabriel’s bodyguard, and I have a phone if they need to reach me,” Castiel told him, grouchy now. “Why, do _you_ sleep across Robert Singer’s doorway?”

Smartass. Dean squished down the bizarre urge to cross his eyes and stick out his tongue to prove that he was _not_ intimidated and Cas shouldn’t even try. Getting all that tension out had clearly taken twenty years off his maturity or something.

Also, Castiel “Angel” Novak was naked and hugging a pillow, with truly epic sex hair and a blanket crease across his cheek. Right now, he was _much_ more a dorky little dude annoyed at someone interrupting his afterglow than a stone cold killer. Dean would have been surprised if he could intimidate a kitten.

“You know _no-one_ calls Bobby ‘Robert’ unless they’re actively trying to piss him off, right?” Dean pointed out. “Just sayin’.”

Cas was currently proving it was possible to roll one’s eyes even when facedown and thoroughly fucked-out with just part of one eye showing. That took a real gift.

Dean huffed out a laugh, and flopped back, stretching long, and… yeah. _Real_ good. “So,” he began again, since it didn’t look like Cas was trying to disappear his entire face back into the pillow again. “Your people know you like dick?”

No, Dean wasn’t one to pussyfoot around the issue. Sue him.

“No.” Castiel eventually turned over the rest of the way and onto his side, but he just shrugged in response to Dean’s frown. “I’m not embarrassed. Gabriel is a young Avoritet, and his time has been… tumultuous.” Well, that was one way to describe an extremely hostile and nearly fratricidal takeover. “Some of the _Prestupnaya,_ especially those who had once been allied with Lucifer, would likely try to attack me, or my Bratva. For… immorality, I suppose. Or some such.”

What, _seriously_? Dean stared. Before Gabriel had taken over, Lucifer had had his hands in supplying girls for the _sex trade_ , and that was why the Chicago Outfit had never dealt with them before that meeting that had gotten Lucifer a bullet. Where did they get off quibbling about _morality_ because of where someone preferred to put their dick?

Cas didn’t sound bothered by any of that in the way that Dean was, though—just blew out a short, exasperated breath through his nose, softly, like the idea of anyone coming at him was stupid and maybe a little suicidal.

If any part of Castiel’s reputation was real, that was probably even true.

“Cocky sonofabitch, aren’t you,” Dean noted, admiringly.

He raised a shoulder loosely, let it fall. “I’m sure I could defend myself,” he mused, solemn as ever, “But it would likely be an unnecessary distraction. My family is aware.”

Dean raised his eyebrows in question. “Your family, or your _family?_ ”

Cas inclined his chin just a little, and he didn’t pretend he didn’t understand—any more than Dean was gonna pretend he didn’t get it. “Lucifer didn’t know.” Which just proved, Dean supposed, that Cas was not a complete idiot. “And Gabriel is married, so familial succession should not be an issue. After Lucifer, my Avoritet has hinted that he considers my loyalty more important than my… preferences,” he confirmed. “As long as I’m… discreet.”

His Avoritet—his big brother—and no-one else, huh? And _hinted?_ Well, right, maybe that loophole was what mattered to Castiel Novak and the Brotherhood.

At the same time, though… really, ‘discreet?’ Fuck that. That was another word, in Dean’s book, for ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,’ and see how well _that_ had worked for the military.

Yeah, Dean knew how lucky he was—that the Chicago Outfit didn’t care if he drove the Impala home via Lakeview or Boystown, that his little brother put on a pink, purple and blue bandanna for Pride, that when Rufus told him to get his cute bisexual ass over to the shop he meant it exactly as it sounded.

Because the way that Cas was living sounded _really_ fucking lonely.

“I really dunno about that, Cas,” Dean snorted, dubiously. “How’s Narnia look from over on the Russian side?”

Dean wasn’t _trying_ to be an asshole, he really wasn’t—sometimes it just came naturally.

Blue eyes, fully awake now, narrowed to dark-framed slits. “I’ve never particularly enjoyed Turkish Delight,” Cas shot back, and Dean’s own eyes went wide. “Are you the White Queen or Mr. Tumnus in this metaphor?”

Well, shit. Okay, so a damned rude question deserved a damned rude answer. Touché. But… “Okay, seriously, _geez_. You don’t get the Jeopardy reference but you get _that?_ Goddammit,” Dean chortled, and Cas seemed surprised when Dean reached out and swiped his fingers roughly through that thick, dark messy hair. More surprised when Dean snagged him by the waist and rolled them both. Making like spoons was nice, sure, but they got kind of sweaty. If he had a choice, Dean liked being on his stomach, and being most of the way on his belly with his palm resting on abs made for biting and one knee thrown over thighs to make a runner cry was something he didn’t get all that often.

He should probably get up and get something to clean them both up, but he didn’t really have much interest in trying to get his legs to work right yet. Dean’s fingertips slid in the slick droplets still beaded just over Castiel’s groin, and he half opened his eyes again to glance down at the warm, shiny wet he had smeared over both his thigh and Cas’s.

That reminded him. He didn’t feel guilty, exactly, because that had been _awesome,_ but…

“Hey, y’know, you don’t, uh.” Dean bit his lip, huffed out a breath against the firm curve of Cas’s shoulder. Was there a good way to say this? Probably not. “Don’t feel like you _have_ to prep yourself. I mean, that was seriously hot as _all Hell,_ don’t get me wrong!” He felt the conversation start running away from him as Cas twisted and peered at him from six inches away, looking confused. “I like doing the warmup part of things. Though, Hell, I like a show, too. I bet you’re good at that. Normally.”

As opposed to ‘abnormally?’ Right. What? He really needed to shut up now. Maybe Cas was contagious.

Dean didn’t think that any of what he was saying was necessarily a bad thing, though. So it was a little weird that Cas had opened his eyes the rest of the way again, and was watching him with his chin tilted in towards his chest and a concerned little crinkle between his eyebrows. And then, when he still didn’t say anything, it was just… even more awkward.

Yep. Awkward was still Castiel Novak’s modus operandi, it looked like.

“I’m not sure I can be ready for penetration again tonight,” Castiel finally admitted, after a silence that had gotten long enough that Dean had started to get kind of itchy under his skin.

“Huh?” Dean blinked, and then the itch cleared and he laughed, running his fingertips down the tight ridges of Cas’s ribs. He didn’t twitch. Not ticklish. Right. Of _course_ he wasn’t. “What? No, I didn’t mean _tonight,_ you pervert.” Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Wow, and people tell me _my_ mind is about five inches from the gutter.”

That got him a glare that should have shot sparks and lit Dean’s eyelashes on fire, if Cas got his way. “I think it’s a reasonable assumption, considering,” he told Dean, stiffly.

“Considering… what? Dude, _no,_ it really isn’t, I don’t live in a porn studio,” Dean snickered, and _yes_ he twitched sideways on the mattress to dodge the elbow that Castiel aimed at his waist.

“What were you referring to, then?” Castiel demanded, and okay, that puzzled, sulky look, all sweet squint and pouty lips? If Dean didn’t think that there was about a fifty-fifty chance that Cas would go for the Colt in its holster, he would have called that ‘cute’ aloud.

“You know.” He shook his head, grinning out of the corner of his mouth. “Next time.”

“Oh.” The concern flashed into the same startlement he’d seen on the steps in Millennium Park—wide-eyed, eyes somehow even bluer—before it smoothed out. It was replaced by… Dean wasn’t sure what that expression was—calm and cold as early March. Proud. It wasn’t quite Cas’s game face, but it was close. “Yes, of course. Next time,” Cas parroted.

The part of Dean that got him both out of and, more commonly, into fights sat up and took notice. That didn’t really sound like Cas being a sarcastic shit, that sounded like a real question hovering in the back there. Dean blinked again.

Yeah, _that_ sounded like the guy who’d asked last time if they could cuddle for just a few minutes, and had clearly wholly prepared himself for a ‘no.’ He’d appear buck naked in someone’s bed and be damned sure of his welcome, he’d think right off the bat that he was being asked for seconds… but he would _not_ quite believe he was being invited back.

Someone had done a number on him, that was for sure.

There were so many answers to the question that Cas wasn’t asking, and Dean didn’t even know which question was the right one. “Yeah…” Dean agreed, just a little carefully, and cocked his head to watch Cas more closely. “I mean, s’been pretty good, right?”

That was rhetorical. Dean knew okay, he knew pretty good, and he knew ‘spontaneous wet dreams in his thirties like revenge of the puberty.’ Everything he’d done with Castiel Novak so far was way, _way_ tilted in the direction of ‘not a teenager anymore but _fuck it._ ’

Castiel considered. “Rather exceptional,” he decided.

Dean chuckled. “Once again: nerd.” He reached out and ruffled Castiel’s messy hair in the opposite direction, this time. He kept going, combing his fingers down neat sideburns and towards the back of his head when he noticed those sapphire eyes unfocusing. By the time he was at the nape of his neck, Castiel’s eyelids were starting to droop, lashes fanning over his cheekbones. Okay, so big bad Parakh liked to be _petted_.

Not that Dean would ever tell anyone, but it wasn’t like anyone would ever _believe_ him.

“I’m… y’know, I was thinking of getting tested, too. Just, s’been a bit.” Dean shrugged, like Castiel wasn’t staring at him with eyes now snapped big again and so blue they could get drowned in. “Better safe than sorry and all, I get that, and I don’t mind wearing a condom for sex, that’s just smart. But blowjobs are a Hell of a lot more fun without the latex.”

“Oh. I… yes.” Castiel nodded, but he was still watching Dean with something akin to a very wary sort of hope. “I’ll… I’m clean. But I suppose I should do that, too.”

_Awesome._ Dean reached over and thumbed over the rough little dip under that pink, plush lower lip—and just because he could, leaned in and flicked the tip of his tongue over the soft seam. Whatever tension was ratcheting Cas’s brain unwound—Cas opened right up for him, leaned in to match, his own tongue coming out to play in a warm little ‘hello there.’

It already felt familiar.

“Good. I want to taste you, like for real. I want to suck on your skin, and I want you to come in my mouth, Cas,” Dean murmured, and even with just the hand he had resting on Castiel’s forearm he felt the goosebumps rise sharply in a tickle under his palm. He sure as Hell felt the shaky exhale against his own chin.

Yep, Castiel Novak _definitely_ had a thing for dirty talk, and oh yeah Dean Winchester could work with that from sunrise to sunset and back again.

Cas licked his lips—dry again; was he allergic to chapstick or something?—and they were still so close the tip of his tongue feathered over Dean’s lips. “If I may reciprocate,” he offered, just that tiny, _tiny_ bit shyly.

_Reciprocate,_ who talked like that? Not even Sammy talked like that. But, well. Cas was a bit of a weirdo, and if Dean was getting kind of fond of it, well, what was wrong with that? Their families were going to try not to kill each other, they had to get along, didn’t they?

And if the chemistry was there, well… why not?

“You don’t gotta, not everyone likes that,” Dean teased, ‘cause Cas’s lips were already coming a little open, a little hungry just from the _thought_ of it. He flicked a finger lightly at the deep bow of Cas’s upper lip. Oh, yeah, he definitely remembered how that mouth had looked stretched tight around his cock, the sharp pink dart of tongue flicking out for just one more lick even with the condom on, _mmm_.

Castiel’s eyes narrowed as he rolled away, pulling his face away from Dean’s hand with a little jerk. His _hmph_ was possibly the most adorable thing Dean had heard in _months_. “Do you mock everyone you sleep with?” he demanded, coolly.

“Nah, just you, mockery’s for repeat offenders and I don’t normally bother ‘sleeping with’ people more than once,” Dean answered, cheerfully, and he even threw some of Cas’s air quotes in there with one hand.

He didn’t realize what he’d said until Castiel went still. The look in his eyes was… he didn’t know what that was.

Intense. Yeah. Wow. _Really_ intense.

“Uh… I don’t mean—” Dean wasn’t even sure what to say. _‘This isn’t serious?’_ It wasn’t. _‘Don’t let it get to your head?’_ That was a level of asshole even Dean did not aspire to reach. “It’s not like—I mean—uh…" The idea crossed his mind that maybe he should be looking away, that those eyes could drown him, but… he didn’t actually want to.

He’d thought getting stared at across Jeffrey Pub was something, but this was… not the same. Cas wasn’t a stranger, not really, not anymore.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Dean,” Castiel finally put Dean out of his misery with a soft snort, and his gaze flicked up to examine the ceiling like he hadn’t been trying to dissect Dean’s soul with it a second ago. “I don’t… take a partner often either.”

“Yeah, I figured that one out for myself, Mr. ‘Oh-I-Don’t-Have-Any-Supplies.’” Dean finally smirked, glad for the ‘out’ as he stretched himself back onto his sheets and yawned. Okay, Cas was probably going to be feeling pretty gross soon, they _should_ clean up, but… later. “Hey, I’m flattered, at least you came prepared this time.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Cas murmured, with an eye roll. Dean smiled slowly, like the menace he was, and opened his mouth—Castiel jabbed a threatening finger at his face, about a hairsbreadth from taking out one of Dean’s eyeballs. “If you make an awful joke about another sort of head, said head is going nowhere near my mouth _ever again_ , Dean.”

There weren’t many threats that could have made Dean Winchester shut up. That one did. And it wasn’t because of the finger so close to his nose that his eyes crossed to look at it.

Castiel narrowed his eyes as if preparing for another sassy remark, and when there wasn’t one that came, raised a dubious dark eyebrow, his forehead wrinkling suspiciously.

Okay, so clearly Cas already knew him that well, too.

Dean shrugged one shoulder, loosely. “Cas, I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but here’s some feedback: number one, pretty sure you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t make threats you’re not planning to keep.” He flashed his teeth in a lazy grin. “Number two, you give a really _amazing_ blowjob.”

“Oh.” Castiel blinked, and to Dean’s astonishment, this beautiful badass _blushed_. He actually fucking _blushed,_ nuclear pink. “Well. Thank you.”

Cas, Dean thought, had no-one to blame but himself when Dean dragged himself over and kissed the everloving _fuck_ out of him.

*_*_*_*

Okay. Right. Whatever warm fuzzies Dean might have been having about Castiel Novak in the wake of some extremely splendid afterglow, they were off the roof of the Sears Tower now and screaming all the way down. This was business here, this was _not_ playtime, this was _serious shit,_ Bobby on Dean’s right, Sammy on Bobby’s; Castiel, Gabriel, and Kevin Tran were sitting across the stretch of the heavy mahogany table in the Roadhouse’s back room, and—

And Cas really, really, _really_ had to stop shifting around like that.

Look, Dean got it. He really did. He _had_ been rough—Cas had honestly thought Dean was asking for round two, _seriously?_ Dean was kind of offended by that, now that he thought about it—and he was really betting that Cas was feeling it today. Especially since, sure, Castiel was experienced all around and he wasn’t some kind of virgin (blushing yes, virgin no) but Dean _believed_ him when he said there hadn’t been anyone in a month, and probably not for longer than that.

Dean wasn’t really sorry. They’d both wanted it that way, and Castiel’s long, slow, lazy kiss when Dean had walked him to his own front door with the sky turning pink outside? Hell, he hadn’t _needed_ to say ‘Thank you,’ this time around.

It had been a long time since he’d had something like that. Years, really. Dean normally vacated the Jeffrey’s private room pretty quickly, and always in the dark, cleaned up with tissues and maybe some wipes. He had kind of forgotten how _nice_ it was to just sort of nap naked and curled up together for a few hours after, and then shuffle two sticky people into a shower and get bath gel over everything and everyone.

Dean would argue that he was better at handjobs than Cas was, but if Cas ever offered again, he would definitely not say no.

None of that made it any less distracting when Dean knew _exactly_ why Castiel couldn’t find a comfortable position in what was supposed to be a very comfortable chair.

“Dean,” Sam hissed, leaning forward.

“What?” Dean asked absently. Cas tilted just a little bit to the left, a tiny grimace crossed his forehead, and he had turned to talk quietly to the Novak before it smoothed out. He wondered if anyone would notice that Cas, right now, probably smelled a lot like _Dean_.

“ _Dean._ ”

“ _What?_ ” Dean demanded, then wrinkled his nose. Okay, shit, that… hadn’t been Sam. Yeah, Bobby was his uncle, but Dean Winchester did not normally take that tone to his Capo when there was anyone other than family around. So maybe Dean was squinting a little apologetically when he turned to find Bobby glaring at him so hard his beard almost bristled.

“Dean, look, I get that he’s got a rep an’ he’s probably nuttier than a Snickers bar, but d’you maybe mind _not_ tryin’ to incinerate the Novak’s Parakh with your eyeballs before we get this deal thing figured out?” Bobby snapped.

Shit. “Yeah, I just, uh… yeah. Sorry. Just had something on my mind, is all,” Dean mumbled. But he shot just one last glare at goddamned Castiel Novak—

Castiel’s face wasn’t turned in his direction. It was still politely tipped down towards Gabriel, who was talking about someone named Uriel with his hands waving. There was no resemblance there: he wouldn’t have known they were related at all, much less brothers. Gabriel was short, light brunet, and smirky, and already had a random pile of candy wrappers scattered in front of him. There was something sort of vertigo-inducing about the fact that Dean knew exactly what Castiel’s full pink lips looked like tipped against a whiskey tumbler and soft with sleep and flushed red with the print of Dean’s teeth, but he honestly couldn’t imagine the guy eating _candy._

But even though Cas wasn’t facing in his direction, those blue, blue eyes _were_ looking right back at Dean.

Across the negotiating table, Castiel raised just one dark eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth ticked upwards to match. The asshole was smirking at him like he knew _exactly_ what situation he was causing in Dean’s boxers. A shining, fancy black pen twisted around his fingers with graceful little flicks that danced it through his heavy knuckles, clicking softly against the table’s dark wood.

Dean would just bet that in other situations, Cas did that with a knife.

That thought should really not have been as hot as it was.

Dean scowled. Then rearranged his expression when Sam did everything but throw something at him behind Bobby’s back.

Yep—Castiel Novak was still a sonofabitch, make no mistake.

Dean stretched out both of his arms in front of him, and then crooked one upwards, elbow resting against the warm wood of the negotiating table—but he didn’t tuck his fist under his chin. Instead, Dean curled his hand with his fingers resting bent against the line of his jaw, casual as all fuck. His thumb brushed back and forth, right at the crook between his own right shoulder and his neck. He _knew_ Castiel had a monster hickey blooming beautifully in this exact spot, visible enough he wouldn’t be able to wear anything without a collar on it for at least a couple of weeks. Dean had sucked water off it not a few hours ago, admired just how dark it had gotten.

That was about when he’d found out that Castiel did, in fact, have really sensitive ears, and he _really_ liked getting them nibbled on while Dean had a hand around his cock.

Dean tucked the tip of a finger just behind his own earlobe and dragged it down, slow, like he was scratching a minor itch.

The fancy pen bounced off Cas’s knuckles and rolled noisily away to hit the floor—then Cas had to bend down and get it, and oh, Dean would just _bet_ that motion had been fun.

The glare Castiel shot back at Dean as he straightened up again, not _quite_ wincing, made _Cas’s_ brother look at him sideways and funny.

Uh-huh. Yeah. Yup. Two could play this game, buddy.

Yeah. Next time?

Dean grinned, vicious. Kevin Tran, looking back and forth between them at an accelerating pace that was gonna give the kid whiplash soon, squeaked.

Next time was gonna be _awesome_.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are at the second installment of “Castiel and Dean continue to make everyone around them very uncomfortable!” I must credit the lovely [Ltleflrt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ltleflrt/pseuds/Ltleflrt) for that, however, because once she mentioned this image I just couldn't get it off my mind... (There may even be a plot someday! Maybe.) 
> 
> I know the format and styling of this is rather different from South Side, but it seemed like it wanted to follow normal chronology. This is somewhat unusual for me!
> 
> West Woodlawn is a neighborhood in the South Side of Chicago (previous famous residents include Hugh Hefner and Jesse Owens, for those who are interested.) Boystown was also not just Dean being snarky, it is an actual place! It’s the oldest officially recognized gay neighborhood in the United States and it has fantastic street festivals in the summer. (It is not, however, anywhere near the South Side.) 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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